The Flirt Part 2
by KylaBosch
Summary: A continuation of Flirt Part 1. Sansa is immediately attracted to Sandor, especially because of his scars. She immediately attempts to woo him and Sandor doesn't know how to react. *Teen!Sansa/Teen!Sandor*
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** All this belongs to GRRM. Am just playing with the characters/theme. I promise to return them safe and sound when I'm done.  
**Beta Readers:** A huge thank you to **weshallflyaway** for your constant help even in light of your crazy schedule!  
**Other notes:** This is a direct continuation of The Flirt Part 1 and was written for **Littlebirdhound** who requested this prompt.

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Neither the night sky nor its pale moon could drown the sickly green glow that clung to everything in sight. It reminded Sandor of his former Masters; their emerald eyes watching from every corner and shadow. The young warrior knew better, however in his state of inebriation it was difficult to ignore the relation. With his hand on the hilt of his sword and a satchel over his shoulder, the two young lovers departed into the war torn night.

Much to his surprise, no one paid them any mind; the guards and soldiers were far too distracted by the chaos unfolding around them. Maegor's holdfast was closed as Sansa had warned, yet they found no resistance. One look at his marred face, and the cowering beauty standing in front of him and the guards were scrambling to open the gates. They needed no explanations, Sandor's loyalty to the king was legendary. They also knew better than to question his majesty's orders.

When they found Stranger within the stables he was attacking some would-be thieves, readying and mounting the courser quickly, the two set off for the drawbridge that led to the outer courtyard. Fortunately for them, the guards were either dead, or had long since abandoned their post in the chaos, leaving the bridge accessible to all. Even the Barbican was found unattended, its portcullis lowered permitting them an easy departure; an unexpected sight, but not an unwelcome one.

There was no escaping the screams of dying men and steel clashing against steel that filled the night air. The scent of blood, smoke, and burning flesh, was also stronger beyond the walls of the Red Keep. The sights that greeted them were equally brutal. Sandor was untroubled by it all; the warrior was accustomed to battle and the macabre images that came with it. It was Sansa, now seated in front of him on his courser that drew his concern; he knew not how she would respond. The maiden however, remained silent as the grave. Her perfect porcelain features carefully hidden beneath a cloak of autumn gold, added to the visage of calm that seemed to exude from her. Only the warmth of her tiny fingers gently squeezing his hand revealed her need for assurance. Unfamiliar with such gestures, Sandor was uncertain how to respond. Truthfully, he needed the assurance almost as much as she did.

The journey to the iron gates proved less eventful than either had feared. Most of the men were busy fighting battles of their own and had enough sense to get out of their way. Those not quick enough were either knocked off their feet, or trampled on. The black courser was eager to put as much distance between them and the Red Keep as possible; a sentiment the scarred warrior and his little bird shared. Even at a steady gallop it felt like an eternity before the giant gates came into view. Sandor immediately sobered at the sight, for it was heavily guarded and drawn shut. There would be no easy way to depart without drawing unwanted attention. The guards called out demanding they stop their approach. Instinctively, the Hound slipped his hand to the hilt of his blade. With a gentle squeeze of his fingers and a hidden smile, Sansa immediately took control of the situation.

'Good evening Sers,' she began in kind tones. If the guards were aware of the young woman's relation to the King it did not show.

'No further Hound. Queen's orders,' announced the taller of two burly soldiers ignoring the northern princess' greeting. Still reeling from the wine, and the battle of Black Water Bay, the scarred warrior felt the last of his patience slipping away. When Sandor reached for his blade the guards promptly drew their own swords. Immediately, he felt Sansa's fingers resting heavily atop his hand resting on the hilt.

'Good Sers, I beg your pardons, Sa—The Hound meant no offense by his actions. The King has ordered him to escort me to Casterly Rock. There I am to remain, until his majesty feels it is safe for my return,' she politely explained. The first guard readily bought her story. His colleague, a burly bearded man who reminded Sandor far too much of Gregor, glared at them in suspicion.

'The Lion gates-' the burly man began, again ignoring the little bird's sweet chirps.

'-has been taken by Stannis' men,' Sandor interrupted. 'You heard the girl. I'm under the King's instruction. He doesn't give a damn how she gets there, only that she makes it intact and untouched. Either you let us pass, or I bloody well run you through for questioning my King's orders!' he barked. The men needed no further encouragement. Soon they were passing through the gates, and making their way along the road that led to Rosby.

It was some time later, as Stranger galloped along the well-worn path leading north before the scarred warrior began to relax. It was about time someone answered the little bird's prayers. Though far from safety, Sandor guided his horse down the main road. There would be time enough for hiding in shadows, travelling along deer paths, and everything else that came with being on the run. Even though his thoughts swam with wine, the warrior knew better than to believe the night would end just like one of his little bird's many stories. Only fools believed in happily ever after.

Then Sansa leaned back against his chest, her delicate fingers slipping over his hands encouraging him to hold her near. The faint crisp scent of lemon and flowers that lingered about her filled his nostrils, just as the warmth of her body teased the rest of him. It was not long before Sandor had forgotten all that was troubling him moments ago. Happy endings may not exist in the real world; perhaps, happy beginnings did.


	2. All Left Unsaid

**Disclaimer:** All this belongs to GRRM. Am just playing with the characters/theme. I promise to return them safe and sound when I'm done. ;)  
**Beta Readers:** A huge thank you to **Onborrowedwings** for your constant help and advice!  
Also a huge shout out and thank you to **Littlebirdhound** for also going over this tale! I am so grateful for all your help, advice and insight into this wonderful prompt!

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'I can't do it. I just can't,' Sansa argued, shaking her head. It was all Sandor could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Two days had passed since their departure and it had been just as long since either one had slept. Having ridden hard since the battle of Blackwater Bay through wind, storms, rain, and the constant threat of capture, they were both exhausted. It was nearly evening when they had stumbled upon the ruins of what had once been a septry, or so it appeared, in the middle of the woods.

After Sandor had ensured Stranger was well fed and watered, he attempted to start a fire with what kindling he could find. Unfortunately, the heavy rainstorms had soaked through everything, and after a third failed attempt to start a fire, the young warrior was at his wits end. He could do without arguments over something as petty as a haircut.

'Can't or won't,' Sandor growled in frustration.

'I won't, the maiden warned, her blue eyes growing wide with fear and obstinacy, 'and neither can you make me!'

Sansa had lived through constant beatings, public humiliation, the loss of her family, and her freedom; not once did she ever complain. Where most girls would have openly protested in defiance, thus getting themselves killed, the little bird kept silent. Only the weight in her blue eyes, the subtle crease of her brow, and the tiny scars of nail imprints on the palms of her hands gave her away. Like him, Sansa had learned to wear the mask of indifference in order to survive. It did not mean she felt nothing. Which made her verbal protests to his suggestion they shorn her long hair, so as to disguise her as a farmer's daughter, all the more baffling to the frustrated warrior.

'Then I may as well throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to your king,' Sandor snapped, 'save them the bother of hunting for you!'

Sansa gasped in horror. 'You wouldn't.'

'I bloody well should,' he growled. Scowling to himself, the scarred young man began a fourth time to start a fire; a poor attempt at distraction. Lack of sleep caused tempers to run high, and despite knowing better, Sandor began to second guess the validity of their escape plan. He could feel the little bird watching him intently, making it a struggle for him to remain focussed. As expected the twigs and leaves were still far too soaked to start even the smallest flame.

'Father loved my long hair,' Sansa quietly lamented after a long pause. 'He used to say it was as beautiful as Mother's.'

'Spare me your vanity, girl,' the Hound rasped in irritation, kicking the useless mound of kindling. 'You think your lord father gives a damn about your hair now? He's food for the worms!' Horrified by his statement, Sansa stared at him in shock and sorrow, her blue eyes filling with unshed tears. Sandor was not about to apologize for the truth. 'Stupid little bird. He'd rather you alive with cut hair than dead, for true. Besides, it will grow back. Now let us be done with it once and for all,' he rasped, feeling exasperated by the whole argument.

'I'll look like a boy, like Arya,' Sansa protested in weak tones.

'Might be, if boys started growing teats,' The Hound mocked with a smirk. Sansa gaped at him in disbelief, her cheeks burning a bright red. Sandor saw she was about to protest further and promptly interrupted her.

'Gods be damned, girl! You're a highborn, a princess of the North. Change your clothes, put mud under your nails and on your cheek and you'll still be that girl. Your hair is like silk. It's obvious that its well cared for and groomed. What farmer's daughter has the luxury of proper combs and brushes? Or baker's get can afford that scented oil you use to make it smell so nice? If they're like to believe that you're just another pretty wench from Kingslanding you'll have to do better than that,' he rasped.

'You will think me ugly,' she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. The absurdity of such a statement made the young man laugh in bitter tones.

'What in seven hells would you know of ugliness, girl? Now quit your peeping, and let's be done with it!' There was no further resistance on her part.

Tears spilled down her blushing cheeks as the young maiden quietly braided her hair, and with a weak nod of assent, she permitted him to begin. It took little effort to cut Sansa's braid of fire; it took far more control to ignore her silent sobs.

Had he the gift of speech, Sandor might have spoken of her beauty, or the way she made him feel. But how could he tell her that he would brave the fires of all seven hells for one of her pretty smiles? Or find the words to express how she was his fairy tale; the beautiful maiden with a heart so gentle. It was her faith in him which gave Sandor the courage to face the wildfires of Blackwater bay. That her kindness gave hope that perhaps he could be something more than just broken dog. But Sandor was no poet, no highborn noble either. He was a warrior, a man of few words who knew not how to express what weighed on his mind and heart. So instead, he gave her the long braid and told her it was done. Ever mindful of her manners, the little bird politely thanked him before quietly asking for a moment alone.

The sun was rapidly setting and Sandor knew it would not be wise to travel far from camp. It did not stop him from wandering about in the woods, his thoughts heavy with memories of the past and trepidation for the future. Despite its necessity, the scarred warrior felt a bit guilty at her sorrow. He wondered if in protecting his little bird he had inadvertently ruined whatever it was they had come to share. At ten and seven years of age, Sandor knew nothing of relationships. What little he had observed was limited to vague memories of his grandparents, and vivid observations of loveless marriages. Neither offered much insight on proper courtship, certainly not with a Northern princess.

The hour was late when Sandor withdrew from his thoughts long enough to register his surroundings. The moon was full against a blanket of darkness hanging heavily in the sky, a perfect reflection was cast in the inky black waters of the pond at his feet. As beautiful as it might have been, it was the strange nocturnal blooms growing near the water that caught his attention. Dark blue in colour, with white centres, it reminded him of the Northern ice roses his grandmother once cherished. Recalling the memories of a more innocent time, Sandor began to collect a handful of the dark blue blooms. With great care the scarred teenager carefully wove the flower stems until he had created a delicate crown. As a little boy, he often made such floral crowns for his late sister; Sandor hoped the princess would like it as much as his little sister once did.

The journey back to the septry ruins proved longer than anticipated. It did not take long for Sandor to question his actions, or doubt Sansa's response to them. He knew a lady's heart could be fickle, he had seen it often enough in court. Did he really believe she would want anything to do with him now? 'Seven bloody hells,' he murmured with a scowl. Once he mocked Sansa for being so naïve and blind, but was he any different? Only in fairy tales would a beautiful maiden reward such a childish token of affection with a smile, or a kiss. Happy endings were for handsome knights and highborn nobles, not ugly broken dogs. You pathetic, empty-headed fool, Sandor thought in disgust, his eyes falling to the intricate floral crown he held. With a muttered curse, the scarred warrior crushed the petals between his fingers before tossing the remains of his lady's crown into the thick brush.

Upon his return to the ruins, it came as no surprise that the encampment was quiet. The moon was well in the sky, and Lady Sansa was certain to have gone to sleep on the makeshift straw bed he had made for her earlier. Yet something felt wrong.

'Little bird?' Sandor rasped in low tones. Only the rustle of trees in the wind answered his call. 'Lady Sansa?' he called out again. A wolf howled in the distance, yet not a sound was heard within the crumbling ruins. Torn between fear and frustration, the scarred warrior scanned the shadows of the derelict building in search for any signs of trouble; they were alone.

'Sansa-bloody hells girl, wake up!' Sandor murmured, approaching her bedroll. The moonlight peering through the giant holes of what had once been a roof revealed a neatly made bedroll. Frantic, he tore back the blanket; only to find straw, as expected. In silence he took in his surroundings. Their food, supplies, and the remainder of his tourney winnings was gone; only Sansa's bedroll, and his courser, Stranger, remained.

His worst nightmare had truly come to pass; the little bird had finally flown away.


End file.
